


common prayers

by duchamp



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchamp/pseuds/duchamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has a home. A home with photographs, books, and pots and pans. A home with someone inside it. Five years back, James would have balked at the idea. Now, he just hopes not to give in to this nameless anxiety that one day this private haven will crumble; turning over in the mud and muck of his misdeeds and England’s ceaseless rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	common prayers

“This might not be the best idea,” James says, even as he sets down the keys to the new flat on the kitchen table. It’s the only piece of furniture in the entire place. They just leased it yesterday. There’s still time to back out, before they settle in—before they get comfortable with this façade of domesticity that will only inevitably crumble.

“I know,” Q says, and reaches for James’ hand. “Now, what was the name of the catalogue that I wanted to order the drapes from?”

This is only going to end in tears.

 

\--

 

He has a home. A home with photographs, books, and pots and pans. A home with someone inside it. Five years back, James would have balked at the idea. Now, he just hopes not to give in to this nameless anxiety that one day this private haven will crumble; turning over in the mud and muck of his misdeeds and England’s ceaseless rain.

 

\--

 

It’s almost an exercise in cognitive dissonance, maintaining the two. There’s the home, the private sanctuary, the place with the mementos and stacked household items. Then there’s work, with the violence and the ugliness and the personas he shuffles through like an endless deck of cards.

But then there’s Q, and Q somehow makes everything a little bit easier.

 

\--

 

James touches down in London, the sight of a rain-slick tarmac never so welcome before in his life. He’s been “missing in action,” quote on quote, for two weeks: thanks to his cover being compromised in Spain, and then encountering a number of various border patrol skirmishes while trying to get home.

He knows he should go straight to MI6 and check in. He knows he should go see M, just to say something along the lines of—“Hello, your best double-oh operative is still in one piece. Cheers. Where do you need me next?”

But James is bruised and battered, he’s tired, and he figures all of that can wait until later. Q’s home, Q’s worried, and Q’s waiting. He’ll go see Q, and then England can have him back. It only seems fair.

 

\--

 

You always have to give something to get something. Inch for inch, measure for measure. And while time supposedly can’t be bought, James knows for a fact that it can. The higher-up’s at MI6 will, in all likelihood, know that he’s back in the country. They’re highly competent, not stupid in the slightest. But when you’re the best field-agent British intelligence has, concessions must be made. So, if he wants to spend two days in bed with Q making up for lost time and not dropping by headquarters—no one’s going to say anything.

“You do know that _I_ need to eventually get back to work,” Q says, though he’s really in no position to be talking. James has had him right at the cusp of coming for the past twenty-minutes, and there’s a red flush making its way up Q’s chest. He’s covered in sweat, wound tight like a coil.

James smirks, teeth grazing a hipbone. “ _Eventually,_ ” he says, taking Q’s cock back in hand, thumb pressed to the leaking slit, “key word.”

 

\--

 

He’s taken in Jakarta.

They ask him questions, which he won’t answer, so they pick him apart—then they put him back together. He’s given I.V. fluids, sedatives, and anti-septic. After, when he’s deemed strong enough, they start the process all over again.

_Tell us what we want to know. If you don’t, we’ll hurt you._ And, so on.

It’s all quite textbook, really. Nothing he hasn’t heard before. James says as much, and it earns him a cuff to the head and the swing of a metal bat at his back.

The third week in, he’s given up trying to goad them. His mind starts to travel. He thinks of green grass beneath his feet, the taste of a good cup of coffee, and hands around his waist. Small things, seemingly inconsequential things. Mundane things, James keeps track. He thinks of the tiles in the kitchen that Q didn’t want—he’d wanted hardwood. He thinks of the kitchen counters, too—littered with multiple empty mugs in the morning, products of one of Q’s busy nights monitoring a mission overseas. He thinks of how aggravated he’d get picking up those mugs and cleaning them, since Q always forgot to put them in the sink before heading to work.

James thinks that he’d give anything to clean one of those damn mugs, now.

 

\--

 

The nightmares are worse this time around, and he can’t sleep.

Each time James closes his eyes there’s the taste of blood in his mouth, the smell of salts, and an insistent voice in his ear. _Just tell us what we need to know, please._ The words echo, tinged with a manufactured reassurance—a calculated play-acting. Then the sound tapers off and the image pops, James waking to the bed-sheets kicked down around his ankles and his shirt drenched in sweat.

It’s more of an annoyance than anything else.

Q finds him in the living area this time, hunched over a newspaper at three in the morning, trying to stay awake. “You should go back to bed,” James says.

Q shakes his head fondly and pads over to the sofa. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee and toast,” he murmurs, voice still raspy from lack of sleep. “Then I think I’ll have a shower. I need to be at the office by five, anyway.” He squeezes James shoulder, his touch comforting and warm—skilled hands an anchor, as they always are.  

 

\--

 

It all happens so quickly.

James’ rounding the corner of the alleyway, gun in hand, calm and steps sure. Then he’s on his stomach, on the pavement, with three bullets in his back and blood seeping into the wool of his overcoat. It doesn’t make sense. James was clear when he’d rounded that corner. He’d made sure of it, he knew. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

“007, what’s going on?” Q’s in his ear, and James tells him what’s happened, gives him the necessary information. “I’ve been shot. Three to the back. I don’t think medical is going to be necessary.”

The words are clipped, clinical, and James has more to say, should say more—like _I’m sorry_ or _I love you_ —because this feels like it’s it. _I don’t think medical is going to be necessary._ But there are black spots edging at his vision, his lids drooping. 

Q’s about to respond, but then communications on MI6’s side dies and everything goes to hell. James can hear Q; can hear everything going on at headquarters—the frantic typing, phones ringing, monitors beeping—Q just can’t hear him, and his carefully articulated calm goes to shambles. “What the _fuck_ just happened?” Q’s asking, and the words are hard and brittle. James hears terror in his voice. “Someone get me a damned live feed, someone get me _something._ ”

James says, “It’s alright, it’s alright…” through blood and gritted teeth, trying to offer some comfort. He says the words even though he knows Q can’t hear them. James wonders if perhaps the words are for himself.

Tears well up and the pain takes over, stealing the breath from his lungs. _No. Stop that,_ he thinks. _No use crying over spilled milk._

This was inevitable, after all.

 

\--

 

The sun is warm at his back, all comforting heat, and there are a pair of legs twined around his own. Waking next to someone in the mornings, no matter how often, will never loose its novelty. He feels grounded, at peace, his iron clad guard down. He closes his eyes, and drifts back off.

When James wakes again there are soft lips at his pulse point. They linger, pressing a kiss there. There’s a hand in his hair. “You’ve risen from the dead how many times now?” Q’s voice is hazy around the edges, warm and welcome and so very loved.  

James smiles, answers honestly. “I think I’ve lost count.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been toying with this for awhile, and I didn’t know if it needed more tweaking or not. But, I showed it to a couple of friends of mine yesterday who really loved it and encouraged me to post it finally. Thankfully I’m back to writing Q’s POV right now, and feeling just comfy and cozy doing so. Damn Bond, why are you so hard to write? (And I want to write some more lighthearted fic for these two. But, despite my best efforts, all I see are angst possibilities. Dammit.)


End file.
